


A McChristmas Carol

by themerrygentleman



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Obviously), Gen, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, a real Dickens of a parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9063085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themerrygentleman/pseuds/themerrygentleman
Summary: Jesse McCree, a miserly Scrooge of a gunslinger, has turned his back on Overwatch--and all of his old friends--for good, no longer caring about anything but the bounties he collects. Not even Christmas in King's Row is enough to give him the tiniest molecule of holiday cheer. Will a visit (or three) from beyond the grave be enough to get him to change his ways?Bah humbug. (A shameless line-by-line parody of Charles Dickens' original classic, because honestly, McCree's Scrooge skin demanded it.)





	1. Stave One: Morrison's Ghost

**A McChristmas Carol**

**Stave One: Morrison’s Ghost**

* * *

 

Morrison was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He had last been seen sprinting into the burning Overwatch headquarters in the Swiss Alps, clutching his pulse rifle as a drowning man might clutch a plank of wood, and that was that. The register of his burial was signed by what little then remained of his strike team: by Mercy, by Reinhardt, and by Torbjorn. McCree signed it: and McCree’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Morrison was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. Gabriel Reyes, for one, might have been inclined to suggest that a coffin-nail is the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade—and well he might know. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or we’re all done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Morrison was as dead as a door-nail.

McCree knew he was dead?  Of course he did. How could it be otherwise?  He had served as an agent of Overwatch under Morrison’s auspices for I don't know how many years. Just the same, he was not terribly cut up by the sad event, having made up his own mind to leave the Watch for ever nearly a year previously. He resurfaced in time for the funeral, where he held his hat in his hands and stared dutifully down at the ground, then left to solemnise the occasion by collecting a good-sized bounty or two.

The mention of Morrison's funeral brings me back to the point I started from.  There is no doubt that Morrison was dead.  This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

But for all that, perhaps there is still some truth in the time-worn adage that old soldiers never die—and they don’t fade away.

McCree, for his part, had not faded away: not quite. He put in solitary appearances here and there around the globe, roaming with no particular purpose or destination in mind, unholstering his six-shooter only when it appeared there was a tidy profit to be gained in doing so. He kept his old Blackwatch credentials to hand: not that he had any need of them. On rare occasions, his clients recognized him as a former Overwatch agent; most often, to them he was nothing but another anonymous desperado. It was all the same to him.

Oh!  But he was a mean old son-of-a-gun, was McCree! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner!  A gambler, a dueller, a bounty hunter, an all-around ne’er-do-well. Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.  The cold within him froze his features, frosted his hair with a premature grey, fixed a permanent scowl to his face, lent something cold and stony to his customary drawl. 

Not long after turning his back on Overwatch, he took to wearing a round pair of spectacles, his eyes being reddened and lined from years of squinting down the barrel of his gun. He abandoned his old-fashioned _vaquero_ ’s garb, and took to dressing all in black, the better to blend into the shadows that had become his permanent abode. A frosty rime clung to the top of his hat, and dwelt in the folds of his cloak. His sole remaining ostentation was the golden belt buckle he had always worn, even in the old days. Back then it had borne a legend identifying its wearer as a B.A.M.F.; more recently, the B had been replaced by a G. Whether it labeled him a Greedy-Ass or a Grumpy-Ass was open to question: none would have dared ask him.

External heat and cold had little influence on McCree.  No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him.  No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.  Foul weather didn't know where to have him. He only ever scowled and pulled down the brim of his hat, and went on about his way.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear McCree, how are you?  When will you come to see me?" No one in need of a hero sought him out to do them a good turn: no one had for years. No one ever asked him what it was o'clock—for no matter the actual time, he would only ever growl that it was High Noon, a stormy look upon his brow and one hand twitching ominously towards his revolver.

But what the hell did McCree care?  It was the very thing he liked.  To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “his jam.”

Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve-- old McCree sat in a long-abandoned Overwatch safehouse concealed behind a bookseller’s in King’s Row, tending the meagre fire. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: flurries drifting down from a stony sky: and he could hear humans and Omnics alike blustering their way along in the court outside, seeking any refuge from the chill.

"Merry Christmas, Jesse!" cried a cheerful voice.  It was the voice of McCree’s old friend Lena Oxton, who came upon him so quickly, indeed in the blink of an eye, that this was the first intimation he had of her approach.

"Bah!" said McCree, "Humbug!"

She had so heated herself with rapid walking (and occasional teleportation) in the fog and frost, this friend of McCree's, that she was all in a glow; her face was ruddy and handsome; her eyes sparkled, her hair had been blown into a riot of spikes by the wind, and her breath smoked.

"Awww, come off it!" said Lena.  "I know you don't mean that."

"Yeah, I do," said McCree.  "Merry Christmas!  It’s freezing, Overwatch is gone, and last I heard you got nothin’ left but that chronal accelerator keepin’ you tethered to this lousy year. What’ve you got to be merry about?"

"Come on, then," returned Lena gaily.  "What’ve you got to be grumpy about?  You’re rich as Croesus and free as the wind."

McCree, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug."

"Come on, don’t be such a Grinch!" said Lena.

"Don’t see what else I can be," returned the gunslinger, "when I’m surrounded by idiots like this.  Merry Christmas!  To hell with merry Christmas!  What's Christmas time but a time for payin’ bills without money; findin’ yourself older but not an ounce wiser; lookin’ for your holiday cheer at the bottom of a bottle and not findin’ that either; balancin’ the books and countin’ out every last penny of the latest bounties on your head?  If I had my way," said McCree, “everyone who goes around tellin’ you Merry Christmas over and over would have a real festive bullet with their name on it.”

"Jesse!" pleaded Lena.

"Lena!" returned Jesse, sternly, "Look, you do Christmas your way, and lemme do it my way."

"Do it your way!" repeated Lena.  "You’re not doing anything."

"Fine, then, you can have it,” McCree said. “For all the good it does you.”

"This might be news to you, but there’s plenty of things that can do you good besides a big fat payout," returned Lena.  "Christmas is one of those. It’s, I dunno, it’s the one time of the year when it seems like people make more of an effort to care about each other. For just a little while they put down all their old gripes and come together and try to see the best in each other. It’s like just for today, everyone really believes in a better world. Peace on Earth and goodwill to men, yeah? And women, and Omnics and…everyone. Call it what you want, but if you say that doesn’t do any good, then I don’t know what to tell you!"

McCree snorted and poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever. “Well, damn,” he said. “You make one hell of a pretty speech, Lena. Maybe you should blink on over to Hollywood and get Hal-Fred Glitchbot to cast you in his next blockbuster.”

"Don't be an ass, Jesse.  Come on! We’re all having a Christmas dinner over at Watchpoint: Gibraltar tomorrow night, just like the old days. Me and Emily and Winston and…and, well, whoever else wants to R.S.V.P. Join us? Just the once?"

“I’ll see you in hell first, sweetheart,” said McCree.

"But why?" cried McCree’s old friend.  "Why are you being like this?"

"What’s the point of _why_?" said McCree. “Plenty of things don’t have any _why_ to ‘em. Come to that, _why_ are you still hangin’ round here with Emily? You were never what I’d call the domestic sort. Time-travelin’ pilot with super speed ain’t exactly easy to tie down.”

"Because I fell in love, damn it," said Lena, her face turning red all over again.

"’Cause you fell in love!" growled McCree, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas.  "Good afternoon!"

"All right, so you don’t believe in Overwatch anymore. I get it. Are you really gonna let that stop you from sharing Christmas dinner with a couple of old friends?"

"Good afternoon," said McCree.

"Look, I’m not asking you to join back up or anything. You’re done. You’ve made that perfectly clear. Does that have to mean we can’t be friends anymore?"

"Good afternoon," said McCree.

"I’m sorry you think it has to be this way. If there’s a good reason you’re so hacked off with me, I don’t know what it is.  But you’re not gonna get the better of my Christmas cheer.  So A Merry Christmas to you, Jesse McCree!"

"Good afternoon," said McCree.

"And A Happy New Year!"

"Good afternoon!" said McCree.

Lena blinked out of the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. 

No sooner had she left, it seemed, than another person entered. This was a portly and pleasant gorilla, square spectacles perched upon his broad nose, and so encrusted with snow and frost that he halfway resembled the Abominable Snowman of Himalayan legend. He nodded cordially to McCree in greeting, and wished him yet another Merry Christmas.

“How can I help you, Winston?” said McCree. “Hope it ain’t about a mission, or do I need to remind you that my C.O.’s been dead for years now?”

"Well, I can only hope that you’ve managed to hold onto some of Gabriel Reyes’ dedication to public service," said Winston, pointedly.

It was open to question, to say the very least, exactly how much public-spiritedness old Reyes himself had retained in the last days of the original Overwatch.  McCree regarded Winston with a suspicious frown.

"It’s the season of giving, Jesse," said Winston, taking up a datapad, "and we used to call ourselves heroes. So the way I see it, it’s about time we did something to give back to the less fortunate. There are thousands of Omnics living down in the Underworld here who still have to go without common comforts. Most of them face threats of violence on a daily basis, especially now that they’ve started agitating for better labor conditions. I’m trying to get together a little group to bring them some basic necessities, and stand guard for a while just in case some idiot gets drunk and tries to start something. We could use someone like you to pitch in.”

"Ain’t there still plenty of mercenary outfits?" asked McCree.

"Yes, there are always mercenaries, Jesse," said Winston with a sigh. “You know that better than I do.”

"The Underworld still gets its little government subsidy?”

"It’s hardly enough, but yes," Winston replied.

“Good to hear,” said McCree. “To hear you talk, I thought for a second the wheels of society had stopped turnin’. Reckon that oughta serve them just fine, then.”

"Yes, but it’s Christmas,” Winston returned, “and if you ask me, people deserve better than just getting by. Come on. I’ve got the whole thing organized. What do you want for a callsign?”

"Nothing!" McCree replied.

"You want to be anonymous? That’s fair enough."

"I wanna be left alone," said McCree.  "Don’t reckon that’s askin’ too much. Look, I don’t lean on anyone else, Christmas time or any time, and I don’t see why they’ve got to either. Omnics don’t even need food, or sleep, or much of anything else. You ask me, you’re just lookin’ for another crusade to hang your hat on."

"Most of them would rather die than keep living in that grimy crawlspace they’ve been crammed into," huffed Winston.

"Well, if that’s how they feel," said McCree, "they might as well go ahead. It’s their call, and it’s too crowded ‘round here anyway.  Besides -- excuse me -- I don't know that."

"But you might know it," Winston observed.

"It ain’t my business," McCree returned.  "Got too many problems of my own these days for me to go stickin’ my nose into everyone else’s. Good afternoon, big fella!"

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue his point, Winston activated his jet pack and withdrew.  McCree returned his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in an even more facetious temper than was usual with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened, as did the falling snow.  The ancient clock tower nearby became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there.  The cold became intense. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. 

Foggier yet, and colder!  Piercing, searching, biting cold.  If Overwatch’s climatologist Mei-Ling Zhou had happened to pass through King’s Row that evening, she might well have found herself frozen alive all over again. A passing young Omnic, insensible of the cold, stooped down at McCree's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of --

"God rest you, merry gentleman!  
May nothing you dismay!"

McCree seized his six-shooter with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

McCree took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern, supplemented with numerous dusty bottles of whisky; and having caught up on the news and played a few solitary games of darts, went back home to bed. 

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the door to the safehouse, necessary as it was to give it an ordinary disguise.  It is also a fact that whatever else McCree may have been—and indeed, he was many things—a daydreamer was hardly one of them.  Let it also be borne in mind that McCree had not bestowed one thought on Jack Morrison or on Gabriel Reyes, since his last mention of the latter’s death that afternoon.  And then let anyone explain to me, if they can, how it happened that McCree, keying the correct code into the keypad to open the door, blinked once, twice, and abruptly saw a ghostly number 76 splashed across the door, burning with a dismal and unearthly flame.

The number seventy-six might have meant nothing to McCree, save for its having been a recent fixture on the calendar. But as he stared fixedly at the burning numerals, a vivid image flashed through his mind, for no reason he could discern: the very picture of old Morrison as he had been in former days, blond and stalwart and upright, clad in the old familiar blue uniform with its long coat. What was more, Morrison seemed to be fixing his stern gaze directly upon McCree himself.

McCree blinked once more, and the door was a plain door again: nothing else.

To say that he was not startled, or that the hairs on the back of his neck did not stand up, would be what he himself would have called a load of bull.  But he finished keying in the code, scanned his fingerprints, and entered the safehouse with a sturdy stride.

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half-expected to find Morrison behind it. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the mechanisms for its various security measures, so he muttered “Bullshit!” and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the empty house like thunder.  McCree was not a man to be frightened by echoes.  He checked the locks again, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too, carelessly flipping a flashlight in one hand as he went.

Even with that measure, he could scarcely see a hand in front of his face, but he hardly cared for that. Darkness is cheap, and McCree liked it. Old Reyes had taught him that. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right.  He had just enough recollection of the burning seventy-six to desire to do that.

Empty, every one of them empty: nothing there but old books and case files and spare provisions and ammunition, to say nothing of a wide variety of empty bottles, and his most recent bounties tucked carefully away in the safe. Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom.  Thus secured against surprise, he took off his top hat and cloak and spectacles; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night.  He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. 

"Humbug!" said McCree; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again.  As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon one of the many security alarms that Overwatch had installed in the long-forgotten days when the safehouse still saw frequent use.  It was with great astonishment, and no small amount of dread, that as he looked, he saw this alarm begin softly beeping.  As he watched, the beeping scaled up in volume; soon it rang out loudly, and so did every other alarm in the house.

This cacophony might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour.  The alarms finally shut off all together. 

Downstairs, a door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise of heavy footsteps on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

"Still a humbug!" said McCree.  "It’ll take more than that to put one over on _me_."

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes.  Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him; Morrison's Ghost!" and fell again.

McCree knew, as if by instinct, that this was Morrison indeed, which was just as well: he could hardly have guessed it by studying the ghost’s face.  Beneath his greying hair, which stirred weightlessly in the chill air, Morrison’s visage was encased in a ghastly mask and visor. His eyes were reduced to a single chill-burning line of a cold electric blue; a skeletal set of teeth, horrible to behold, was painted over the mouth of the mask.  His outfit was leather, all in bone white and coal black and ghostly blue. His body was transparent, so that McCree, observing him, and looking through his jacket, could see the familiar legend _76_ emblazoned on his coat behind.

McCree had often heard it said that Morrison had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now.  Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of the glare of its death-cold visor; and marked the very texture of the scars upon its brow and the dents and scratches upon its mask: he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses.

"Howdy!" said McCree, caustic and cold as ever. "What d’you want with me?"

"More than you think!" – it was Morrison's gravelly voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"The right question is, who  _was_ I _._ "

"Fine, who  _were_  you then?"  said McCree, raising his voice.  "You're awful particular, for a shade."

"In life I was your Strike Commander, Jack Morrison."

"You were never _my_ Strike Commander,” McCree pointed out. “Passed me off to Reyes and Blackwatch just as quick as you please.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” growled the ghost. “I’m Jack Morrison, that’s the point, and right now I’m all you get.”

“Can you -- can you sit down?"  asked McCree, looking doubtfully at him.

"I can."

"Do it then."

"You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost, who obstinately remained standing.

"I don't." said McCree.

"What more proof do you need?"

"Dunno," said McCree.

"Goddammit, why won’t you just listen to your senses?"

"Because," said McCree, "they ain’t exactly what you’d call reliable. Don’t take much to get me seeing somethin’ that’s not there. You know what I bet you are? The ghost of that dodgy burrito I ate last night. You ain’t Jack—you’re just pepper Jack. That’s all that’s comin’ back to haunt _me_."

McCree was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, not these days.  The truth is, that being a smart-ass was all he had left as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

To sit, staring at that unmoving visor, in silence, was intolerable.  There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.  Scrooge could not feel it himself, but the Ghost’s body was surrounded by a corona of blue flame, which burned without heat.

"Y’see this cigar?"  said McCree, hoping that just for a moment, Morrison would look anywhere other than at him.

"I do," replied the Ghost.

"You ain’t lookin’," said McCree.

“I can still see it,” said the Ghost. “Get to the point!”

"Well!" returned McCree, "If I swallow this, I’m gonna see a hell of a lot more ghosts than just you. Humbug, I tell ya! Humbug!"

At this the spirit gave another low growl, and unclasped the mask and visor upon its face.  McCree recoiled in horror to see what was left of Morrison’s visage, scored as it was with deep scars and ancient, badly healed burns.

"Cut that shit out!” he said. “What do you want with me, anyway?"

"Listen up, you disrespectful punk!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in me or not?"

"All right, fine, I do!" said McCree.  "Reckon I have to at this point.  But you’re not answering my question: what are you doin’ here?”

"My war’s not over yet," the Ghost returned. “I’ve still got a long, weary journey ahead of me.  My old life might be over, but I’m still wandering through the world, trying to lend a hand where I can. Looking in from the outside while everyone else leads their happy, normal lives. Something I missed my chance at a long time ago.”

"You musta been awful slow about it, Jack," McCree observed, as casually as he could.

"Slow!" the Ghost repeated.

"What, five, six years dead now?” mused McCree. "And travelling all the time!"

"The whole time," said the Ghost.  "No rest for the weary. No rest for the wicked, either, if you want to put it that way.”

"Dunno what you’re talking about, Jack," faltered McCree, who now began to apply this to himself. “You always got the job done just fine.”

"The job!" growled the Ghost, taking a menacing step closer.  "Helping people was the job. Making the world a safer place, giving people heroes they could believe in, giving them _hope_ again—all _that_ was the job! The strike teams, the covert ops, all of the bureaucratic bullshit—that wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg of the goddamned _job!_ "

It held up its pulse rifle at arm’s length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and then slammed it down onto McCree’s end table.

"Now, listen up!" cried the Ghost.  "I don’t have all day."

"I will," said McCree.  "But don't be a hardass with me, all right?”

"I’ve had you in my sights for a long time, Jesse McCree,” said the Ghost. “You’re headed down the same road I started travelling, all those years ago. It’s too late for me, but you’ve still got a chance to turn around and make something better of yourself. I’m here to offer you that chance."

"You always were a good Commander," said McCree.  "Thank `ee!"

"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."

McCree's face fell.

"That’s the second chance you mentioned, Jack?" he demanded, in a faltering voice.

"It is."

"Reckon I’ll give that a miss," said McCree.

"Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread.  You’ll take the haunting and you’ll damn well like it. That’s an order. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls high noon."

"Couldn't I take `em all at once, and get it over with, Jack?"  hinted McCree.

"Expect the second on the next day at the same hour.  The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate.  Don’t expect to see me again, and remember what I just told you. And don’t say I didn’t warn you!"

When it had said these words, the spectre took its mask and visor from the table, and pressed it into place over its face, as before, with a sharp hiss and a click.  McCree ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him at military attention.

The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open.  It beckoned McCree to approach, which he did.  When they were within two paces of each other, Morrison's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer.  McCree stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory.  The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

McCree closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered.  Its multitude of locks, thumbprint scanners, and ID readers all remained undisturbed.  He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable.  And being thoroughly tuckered out by his brush with the world of spirits, he went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.


	2. Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits

When McCree awoke, a pale and watery light was falling through the shaded windows of the safehouse. He was still yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes when the distant clock tower struck three quarters.

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve. In all the days of his adult life, since his earliest beginnings with the Deadlock Gang, McCree had never been known to rise later than seven. The clock was wrong. An icicle must have got into the works. Twelve.

"Ain’t no way I slept through the whole night and the whole morning," said McCree, "that’s gotta be impossible.”

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very little then. All he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world.

McCree went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavored not to think, the more he thought. Morrison's Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dream or not?"

"Ding, dong!"

"A quarter past," said McCree, counting.

"Ding dong!"

"Half past!" said McCree.

"Ding dong!"

"A quarter to it," said McCree.

"Ding dong!"

"It’s high noon," said McCree, triumphantly,

"and nothing else!"

For a moment the room was filled with nothing but winter silence, broken only by a distant warbling chirp: the cry of a shrike, McCree thought, though out of season and out of place. Then, without warning, light flashed up in the room, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and McCree, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.

It was a strange figure – of slight stature, like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old woman, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave her the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. In its arms, it cradled a sniper rifle of unusual make. It was clad in tattered tactical gear in varying shades of blue and white, and a cloak of a curious, feathery design; and like Morrison’s Ghost before it, its face was concealed, by a strange owl-like mask that presented tufted horns and a beak to the world, in place of any conventional features.

"Reckon you’re one of those ghosts Morrsion told me to expect?" asked McCree.

"I am."

The voice was soft and gentle, though deepened and roughened as by decades of age and care.

"All right then. Who and what the hell are you exactly?" McCree demanded.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long Past?" inquired McCree: observant of its well-seasoned tone.

"No. Your past."

“And what are you hiding under that mask?” McCree pursued. “Come on, take it off once. If you’re gonna be haunting me, we oughta be properly acquainted.”

"I have to hide my face,” snapped the Ghost, “because of people like you, Jesse McCree, people who are always in too much of a hurry to leave the past behind. You haven’t cared to look for me and see me as I really am for years now; I don’t see why you should start now.”

“All right, all right!” said McCree, putting up his hands in surrender. “Sensitive subject. Forget I asked. Anyway, let’s get down to brass tacks. What brings you here today?”

"You need healing," said the Ghost. “That’s what.”

“Much obliged,” said McCree, “but in that case, mighta been better if you’d just left me to my beauty rest.”

"You need reclamation, then,” said the Ghost, archly. “Call it what you want.”

It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm.

"Get up. And walk with me."

It would have been in vain for McCree to point out that his bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he was used to a far warmer and more arid climate than this. The grasp, though gentle as an elderly woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped her robe in supplication.

"Hey! Lemme remind you that I ain’t nothing more than a man with a gun," McCree remonstrated, "I can’t go soarin’ around in midair like a Mercy or a Winston. I step out that window, all you’re gonna get is a real grumpy pancake."

"I can empower you for more than just that," said the Spirit, producing a dart pistol and leveling it at McCree’s heart. "Hold still."

The next instant, McCree felt a sharp jab; a moment later, he found himself suffused by the same spectral blue light that had illuminated Morrison’s Ghost the previous night. It crackled through his veins like lightning, and as he took the Spirit’s hand, he felt his feet leave the ground.

The next McCree knew, he and the Spirit stood upon an open country road, with towers of red stone on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear summer’s day, the distant horizon shimmering in the desert heat.

“God damn!” said McCree, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. “Never thought I’d see this old place again. Haven’t been here since I was practically a kid!”

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man’s sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten!

“Your lip is trembling,” said the Ghost. “And what’s that on your cheek?”

“Reckon it’s just a zit,” McCree muttered, his voice catching oddly. “And if you’re gonna start makin’ remarks about my skin care regimen, I’m outta here. We going somewhere, or aren’t we?”

“You still remember the way, don’t you?” inquired the Spirit.

“Remember it!” cried McCree with fervour; “Hell, I could walk it blindfolded, if I hadta. Did, a couple times, come to that.”

“Strange you let yourself forget it for so long, then!” observed the Ghost. “Come on.”

They walked along the road, McCree recognising every gate, and post, and gnarled tree or patch of sagebrush; until a dusty little town appeared in the distance, with its motel, its gas station, its tavern, and its garage. Some dilapidated motorcycles now were seen rumbling towards them with unkempt Deadlock Gang members upon their backs, who called to other bikers loitering outside the bar or the garage. All these Deadlock members were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the very walls of the canyon around them echoed with the rough music of their laughter.

“You’re looking at ghosts of a time long since dead,” said the Ghost. “They can’t see or hear us.”

The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, McCree knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them! Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past! Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes! What was merry Christmas to McCree? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done to him?

“Deadlock HQ isn’t quite empty,” said the Ghost. “There’s one young man still there, left behind by all the rest.”

McCree said he knew it. And he did his best to choke back a sob, with only partial success.

They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a weathered warehouse set into the red stone walls of the canyon. It was a large base, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious storerooms were little used, their walls were rusted and mildewed, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Empty shipping containers and abandoned vehicles littered the whole of the place. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too many jobs and not enough payoffs.

They went, the Ghost and McCree, across the hall, to a door at the back of the warehouse. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of anonymous crates and containers. Perched atop one of these was a youth in a cowboy hat, reading by the light of a sputtering lantern; and McCree sat down, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be.

Not a latent echo in the base, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a creak or groan from the wearied metal, not an empty rattle of wind in the sagebrush, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of McCree with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.

“I kinda wish,” McCree muttered, after blowing his nose noisily and wiping his eyes with one sleeve: “but naw, it’s too late now. What’s done is done.”

“What’s the matter?” asked the Spirit.

“Ah, nothin’ much,” said McCree. “There was some Omnic singin’ carols outside my door the other night. Thinkin’ maybe it woulda been nice to give the poor frozen bastard a little somethin’. That’s all.”

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, “Let us see another Christmas!”

McCree’s former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; bulbs overhead sputtered and dimmed and went out, and further patches of rust spread across the ceiling; but how all this was brought about, McCree knew no more than you do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the rest of the Deadlock Gang had gone.

He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. McCree looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door.

It opened; and a tall, dark man clad all in Blackwatch tactical gear, came striding in, and fixing McCree with a sharp, calculating stare, addressed him as “you ungrateful punk.”

“I’m here to offer you one last chance, Cowboy!” said the agent, folding his muscular arms, and looking down at McCree with a sardonic expression. “That new start with Overwatch is yours if you say the word. If you don’t, there’s a jail cell with your name on it!”

“New start, huh?” returned McCree.

“That’s right,” said Old Reyes--for he it was, though not so old now as he would be in McCree’s bitterer and more recent memories. “Turning over a new leaf, you could say. The rest of the command structure has given me full clearance to make you an agent of Blackwatch. They weren’t too sure at first about taking in some jumped-up kid who likes to think he’s some kind of cowboy, but, well, I’ve seen the way you can shoot. I made them see things my way. So what’s it gonna be: come with me and make a man of yourself, or throw yourself on the mercy of the law? One thing’s for sure: one way or another, you’re never coming back _here._ ”

“You drive one hell of a bargain, mister,” said McCree.

Reyes chuckled, and extended his hand for McCree to shake. Then he began to drag him towards the door; and he, nothing better to do, accompanied him.

“Never exactly sunshine and daisies, that one,” said the Ghost. “But he had a good heart under it all!”

“So he did,” cried McCree. “Can’t argue with you on that one, Spirit!”

“He died the day Overwatch fell, I think,” said the Ghost, “the same day as Jack Morrison.”

“That’s right,” McCree returned.

“But there have been rumors since then, haven’t there? Rumors that something else happened to him!”

McCree seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, “Yes.”

Although they had but that moment left the Deadlock base behind them, they were now in the snowy mountain slopes near Overwatch’s Swiss headquarters, where detachments of blue-coated agents and support staff passed and repassed; where hover-trucks and automated drones battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the decorations strung up here and there around the base itself, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up.

They went in. The place where they found themselves appeared to be a workshop of some description, its tables piled high with wrenches and gears and half-assembled machinery. Someone had festooned every corner of the room with strings of coloured lights and sprigs of holly and mistletoe, in honor of the season, and had set up a merrily glowing artificial tree near the door. But McCree’s eyes were drawn to the figure in the center of the workshop: an old gentleman with a tremendous blond beard, sitting behind such a high desk that only his unusually short stature kept him from knocking his head against the ceiling. He was as festively adorned as the room in which he worked: got up as Father Christmas, tasseled hat and red coat and all.

McCree cried in great excitement:

"Son of a gun, if it ain’t old Torbjorn! Bless his heart, Torbjorn Lindholm back at HQ! Wonders never cease!"

Old Torbjorn laid down his hammer, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial, Swedish-accented voice:

"Yo ho, there! McCree! Genji!"

McCree's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow agent, a cyborg ninja.

"How ‘bout that--Genji Shimada," said McCree to the Ghost. "Ain’t seen him in I don’t know how long now. There he is. I musta been one of the only friends he had in the world back then, the poor bastard..."

"Yo ho, my boys!" said Torbjorn. "No missions for the Watch to-night. We’ve all got a day off at last, and it only took Christmas Eve to make it happen. Now, let's get to the mess hall and get everything set up," cried old Torbjorn, with a sharp clap of his hands and another hearty chuckle, "before you can say Jack Morrison."

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it. They charged into the corridor without a moment’s hesitation, McCree and the Spirit following after, and reached the mess hall before you could have counted to twelve.

"Hilli-ho!" cried Torbjorn, skipping into the room some moments later, with agility that belied his age and stature. "Get this place cleared out, you two, and let's have lots of room here. Come on, Genji! Shake a leg, McCree!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Torbjorn looking on. It was done in a minute. All of the stray weapons and armor were packed away into lockers; the floor was swept, Christmas lights were hung from every corner, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a celebrity DJ from Rio de Janeiro, specially commissioned by Overwatch for the occasion. He went up to a lofty platform at the head of the room and conjured his sound boards out of hard-light, beaming fit to light up the whole headquarters all the while. In came Morrison, whole and alive again, and behind him old Gabriel Reyes, favoring the proceedings with a grudging smile. In came Angela Zeigler, dressed as a golden angel fit for the top of any Christmas tree, and Reinhardt Wilhelm with his booming laughter, and Ana Amari on Reinhardt’s arm. In came Gabrielle Adawe herself, listening for urgent news on an earpiece but ready to make merry with the others just the same. In came all the young heroes employed as Overwatch agents: Liao and Mirembe and Kimiko and Singh and and a dozen more. In came the support staff, and the science teams, and the diplomatic liaisons from the U.N. and Numbani and Volskaya Industries and a hundred other places besides. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. And no sooner had they come in then they set to dancing to the thriving beat the DJ set them; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping. When the last of the beat had thumped away, old Torbjorn, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well done!" and the DJ splashed his hot face with an iced energy drink, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other DJ had been carried home to Rio, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.

There were more dances, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was roast ham and roast turkey, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the feast, when the DJ (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up "We Move Together As One." Then old Torbjorn stood out to dance with Mrs Lindholm, his tall Valkyrie of a wife. Top couple too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who  _would_  dance, and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many -- ah, four times -- old Torbjorn would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs Lindholm. As to  _her_ , she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. As for Torjborn, he leapt into the air and clicked his heels with jolly abandon, as though the time had turned back further still, and left him a sprightlier man of far fewer years.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and Mrs Lindholm took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as they went out, wished them a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but McCree and Genji, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were in a barracks near Torbjorn’s workshop.

During the whole of this time, McCree had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Genji were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, the feathers upon its mask and cloak stirring as though in some invisible wind.

"It’s a small matter, isn’t it," said the Ghost, "for everyone to be getting so excited over."

"Small!" echoed McCree.

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two young agents, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Torbjorn: and when he had done so, said,

"A tiny little get-together like this would barely put a dent in Overwatch’s expense budget. You know that as well as I do. Is it worth making such a fuss just for that?"

"It ain’t about how big the tab was, all right?" said McCree, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. "Look, it’s like this. This job—bein’ an Overwatch agent—it ain’t always easy, and it sure ain’t always a barrel of laughs. But people like old Torb, doin’ things like this—they made it a hell of a lot easier to live with. Made HQ feel a little bit more like home. Made the team feel a little bit more like—well—like we were a real family. You can’t put a price tag on that, you know you can’t.”

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

"What’s the matter?" asked the Ghost.

“Nothin’ particular," said McCree.

"Something you’re not telling me?" the Ghost insisted.

"No," said McCree, "No. Be nice if I could say a word or two to ol’ Winston right now! That's all."

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and McCree and the Ghost again stood side by side in another part of the base.

"My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!"

This was not addressed to McCree, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again McCree saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair-haired woman in a medical coat: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“I know it doesn’t make much of a difference to you,” she said, softly. “You’ve got other priorities than Overwatch now, and if they make you as happy as working with us used to, then I suppose I’m happy for you.”

“What other priorities are you talkin’ about?” he rejoined.

“Mercenary work, Jesse,” Angela Ziegler told him. “Black ops and bounties. Please don’t try to deny it.”

“That’s what makes the world go ‘round, Angie, and you know it was well as I do!” he said. “All those morals-of-the-story tellin’ you not to be greedy…just you try hangin’ on to those lofty ideas when you ain’t got two cents to rub together.”

“You didn’t used to be so afraid of the world,” she answered, gently. “All you seem to think of these days is what you call  _ surviving.  _ But there used to be something more to it than that. Didn’t there?”

“Yeah, well, so what?” he retorted. “Maybe I’m a damn sight more practical than I used to be in the old days, but my... _ agreement _ ...with Overwatch is just the same as it ever was.”

She shook her head.

“Is it? Your deal with Reyes is an old one. It was made when you were young and looking for a cause, so desperate to prove yourself. You  _ have _ changed since then. When that agreement was made, you were another man.”

“Hell, Angie, you said it yourself, I was just a dumb kid back then,” he said impatiently. “You can’t still go tryin’ to hold me to who I used to be.”

“That’s exactly my point,” she returned. “You know you’re not the same McCree you used to be, and so do I. Ever since the news started coming out about the things Blackwatch has done, and you started taking outside jobs, I’ve known you had one foot out the door. You know, if you talked to Jack or Gabriel about it, I’m sure they’d be willing to release you from your contract.”

“I ever said anything about wanting out?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“Then what the hell are you talkin’ about, exactly?”

“I think everyone can see it, Jesse,” said the doctor, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him. “The way you look, the way you talk, the way you act. I don’t think there’s a person alive on this base who hasn’t guessed you want something other than Overwatch by now. Whatever we meant to you once, it’s just not something you value anymore. Answer me this, if Reyes had tried to recruit you today, would you still have said yes?”

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle, “You don’t think so, huh.”

“I wish I could say you would,” she answered, “Heaven knows! But if you were a free man tomorrow, could I believe that you’d choose Overwatch again? It’s not like there’s much profit in it, I know….or at least not what you call profit these days. If you did start working for us again, I can only imagine you’d regret it right away the next morning. So maybe it’s time I said goodbye. And no hard feelings, Jesse McCree. For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”

He was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she resumed.

“Maybe you’ll think of us sometimes. The Jesse McCree I used to know would have, at least. You’ll remember Overwatch like you remember the Deadlock gang now--just another old story to tell when you’re drunk and feeling sentimental. Well, wherever the road takes you, I hope you’re happy there.”

She left him, and they parted.

“All right, Your Ghostliness, show’s over!” said McCree, “Past time I was gettin’ home. What kinda sick creature are you, anyway, wantin’ to torture me like this? Didn’t know better, I would swear you were enjoying it.”

“One shadow more!” exclaimed the Ghost.

“None shadow more!” cried McCree. “I’m tellin’ ya, no more. I don’t wanna see it. Quit draggin’ me through all this!”

But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both its arms, and forced him to observe what happened next.

They were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. A winter storm blew past the windows, its chill repelled by the fire roaring in the hearth, which cast its rosy glow through all the room. Near to the winter fire sat a young woman, tall and dark and athletic, ignoring the hockey game playing on the nearby television and turning instead with a smile to an open vid-call channel. 

“Angela,” said she, “I saw an old friend of ours in the news this afternoon.”

“Who was it?” asked the woman on the other end of the call--none other than Angela Ziegler once again, now somewhat older and more careworn, though few but McCree could have detected the signs of it upon her face.

“Guess!”

“How could I ever guess?” Angela said with a laugh, and immediately added, “It wasn’t a Mr. Jesse McCree, was it?”

“It was. Can’t have been anyone else. I’m guessing you heard about that train heist too, then? As soon as they said someone dressed like a cowboy was involved...well, that settled it.”

Angela nodded, her expression guarded. “No one in what’s left of the old Overwatch networks has heard from him in years. As far as I know, he’s alone.”

“All right, Spirit, that’s enough!” said McCree in a broken voice, “get me outta this damn place already.”

“I told you these were the echoes of what’s already been said and done,” said the Ghost. “That they are what they are, don’t blame me!”

“I’m begging you, get me outta here!” McCree exclaimed, “I can’t stand another minute of this!”

He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him now with an unmasked face that was inexpressibly familiar, and seemed strangely connected with the times it had shown him, wrestled with it.

“Get the hell outta here! Put me back where I was. Quit haunting my brain with this shit!”

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, McCree observed that its dart pistol was still holstered at its hip, and, dimly connecting that with its continuing influence over him, made to seize it. In a matter of moments he had wrestled the pistol away, leveled it at the Ghost’s form, and discharged a dart. 

The Spirit dropped beneath it, vanishing entirely from view an instant later; but this was not enough to extinguish the chill, spectral fire it had brought with it, which lingered and crackled all through the corners of the room. 

McCree was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He tossed the dart pistol into a corner, where it clattered to the floor; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betcha thought I forgot about this one, didn't you? I started this fic during the previous Overwatch Winter Wonderland event a year ago, but never got beyond posting the first chapter. But now that it's that time of year again, it's time to bring the tale of Jesse "Scrooge" McCree back! I've been working ahead this time, and if all goes well I should be able to post the remaining chapters before the event ends at New Year's. Here goes nothing!
> 
> Co-written, as before, by the Angry Ghost of Charles Dickens.
> 
> Next up: the Ghost of Christmas Present. Three guesses who's gonna be taking that role. Who do we know who's tall and bearded and merry, I wonder?

**Author's Note:**

> I was utterly delighted by McCree's Scrooge skin in the Overwatch holiday event, so it wasn't long before I started thinking about which of the other heroes would take which roles in the plot of A Christmas Carol. And because if a thing is worth doing it's worth OVERdoing, I didn't just content myself with a summary or paraphrase. No, I had to go through the original text line by line and Overwatch-ify every last bit of it. Three cheers for public domain.
> 
> This work was co-written, therefore, by the angry ghost of Charles Dickens. I expect my own haunting by Three Spirits to begin any time now.


End file.
